The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(79)

“All right, I’m going to call the Yard and have someone investigate if there are any witnesses to who may have left it.” As he rose, he gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “And I’ll see where the blasted tea is….”

As he went to the desk and made the telephone call, she picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her sweater, her heart drumming. Someone left me a kidney. Whose was it? Brynn’s? That of another woman working with SOE? One murdered by the Blackout Beast?

She continued to pick at the fraying cuff as she listened to Durgin speak to an officer at the Yard, then place another call, this one within MI-5, requesting a photographer.

When he was done, Maggie began speaking, the words pouring from her. “I have a friend who’s a mother staying with me, with her child. A baby! I can’t have”—she fumbled for a word—“offal delivered to my home! And the letter—”



She put her hand to her mouth, covering it as though she could force the words back in; she couldn’t speak them aloud. If that’s her kidney, then where’s the rest of her? Oh, Brynn…She dropped her hands to her lap, and underneath the tabletop, curled them into fists, nails digging deep into her palms, making angry red crescents.

“Miss Hope,” Durgin said, gently. “Maggie. I’m now going to ask you—with all due respect—to take a deep breath.”

She did.

The detective put on a pair of rubber gloves. He moved back to the package, lifting it from the pillowcase. “It’s addressed to you—by name.”

Maggie nodded, mute with misery and fury. She watched as he parted the brown butcher’s paper. Using the tips of his fingers, he pulled out the note, then peered inside. “That’s half a kidney, all right,” he said as the unpleasant odor permeated the office. “Can’t tell if it’s human or not.” He looked over to her. “Please go into my bag and get my powder and brush. I’m going to dust for prints.”

Maggie did as he asked.

He dipped his brush into the powder. “Did you touch it?”

“No. Of course not,” she snapped. “Oh, goodness—I touched the letter! I didn’t know what it was when I did—”

“It’s all right,” Durgin allowed, unexpectedly gentle. After dusting the package, notes, and kidney itself, he picked something up with his tweezers. “What’s this?”

“A hair?”

“A cat hair,” Durgin specified. “Marmalade tabby, I’m guessing.”



“It’s mine.” Maggie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I mean, it’s from my cat.”

“It’s always best, on the whole, Miss Hope, not to allow animals to contaminate crime scenes. Whenever possible, of course.”

Maggie’s head shot up. “Well, tell that to him, living on rationed cat food and smelling a nice raw kidney!”

He gazed at her a moment before replying. “Well, we have no fingerprints, no insects, and no fibers—beyond the hair of one red tabby cat. But the letter…” He shook his head. “The letter gives us quite a lot of information on our Beast and the way he thinks.”

An MI-5 agent came to the door with a heavy black camera, and Durgin waved him in. As the photographer, a walrus of a man with an elaborate white handlebar mustache, began snapping pictures from every conceivable angle, Maggie asked, “Do you really think the Beast ate the other half, the way Jack the Ripper allegedly did? We’re now dealing with cannibalism?”

“Maggie, come walk with me.” Durgin picked up their coats. “Let’s let this man do his job.” He held Maggie’s for her as she put it on, then put on his own.

Outside, the pavement was slick and wet, and more snow was falling. For the moment, the wind had died down. The perfect time to light up, Maggie thought, suddenly desperately craving a cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

“No, I quit that habit, along with the whiskey, back in the day. You?”

“I stopped, too. Bad for the lungs, I believe.”

“Absolutely right—and I’ve seen enough autopsies on smokers’ lungs to know.”

There was a low wooden bench outside a chemist’s shop, protected by a striped awning. Durgin stopped and took a seat. “Do you mind?” he asked, looking up at Maggie.



“Thank you,” she said, realizing why he’d brought her out. “The fresh air is helping.”

“Well, it’s not every day you get home delivery from the so-called Blackout Beast. Along with a manifesto of hatred.”

They sat, watching the snow spiral down, the white flakes melting on the black, wet street, the sky overhead a milky gray. Their arms brushed and both stiffened and drew apart.

“How did you meet Frain?” he asked. “What’s your connection with MI-Five?”

“Frain?” Maggie was desperately glad to talk about anything but the package. “Peter Frain and I worked together on a case when the war had just started and I was working as Mr. Churchill’s secretary. He found I was good at codes and things, and then he recruited me. Even though I’m technically with the ATS and employed by the SOE, I do the odd job for MI-Five, too.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Which, I suppose, is what makes me one of those ‘professional women’ our Beast hates so much.”